


THE SUN GOD

by spells



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Getting Together, Haikyuu!! Manga Spoilers, M/M, Post-Time Skip, annoyances to lovers, isaac gets unhinged (again), possibly ooc but at least im self aware, what i like to call
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:53:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26429683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spells/pseuds/spells
Summary: Kiyoomi can’t breathe at all. He’s been left in a dungeon, rotting under the setting sun, the air milky with moisture and billowing with dust, golden, viscous. Atsumu’s persecuting him to watch him burn. Atsumu’s throne is made of bones and firewood, and he sits in tongues of fire.God, Miya Atsumu. Miya fucking Atsumu.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 16
Kudos: 210





	THE SUN GOD

God, Miya Atsumu. Miya fucking Atsumu.

Kiyoomi hides his face in his arms. He shouldn’t have agreed to come. He shouldn’t have agreed to anything, he should be home, should be in Tokyo. There’s that familiar sentiment in his stomach, irked by all of this, gut-wrenching, twisting, except it’s not disgust: maybe something like regret or anxiety. Miya fucking Atsumu.

Miya Atsumu’s the sun at noon, high and bright and mighty. Kiyoomi’s never been one for summer.

The restaurant is so warm, Kiyoomi thinks he might pass out. Oil wafts warm in the air from the kitchen and all these crammed tables make it worse, chatter and alcohol and humidity, burning bright red and desperate. He takes another sip of his beer, cold enough for a relief, but so short-lived, it’s funny.

His teammates are laughing about something; they have been, ever since he got here. All these extroverts, he swears— he’s always known going out with them would end up like this, but he didn’t really have a choice this time around. If he thinks about Meian’s face when he was the last one to confirm attendance— God, Kiyoomi just wants to go home. He can feel Atsumu’s knees bumping against his when he talks, can feel Atsumu crowding him back into his seat when he reaches out with his arms and ruffles Hinata’s hair, and it’s driving him crazy, the closeness, the touching. Kiyoomi can’t fucking stand this; he stands, but no one looks when he walks away, the huddle of warmth and smiles scarily all-encompassing.

It’s nicer outside, cooler, streets empty, the night made of neon blue and crummy grey tones. He hates summer nights, because it’s cooler but it’s not cold, never cold enough, always a life of air-conditioners and icy drinks. He rests his back against the wall, cars driving by, slow, sometimes quietly thumping with music, sometimes fast and blurry. Kiyoomi doesn’t think he’s sober; he can’t remember how many beers he had, trying and trying once again to feel anything but hot, hot, hot. (He hates going out to bars, going out to drink. He doesn’t even do it by himself, drinks wine at home when he needs it, sometimes goes to one or two of his friends’ parties, but bars? This? Kiyoomi would rather jump off a bridge.)

“Yer’ not leaving, are you, Omi-kun?”

Who else?

“Might be.” Kiyoomi chokes on his words, swallows. He might be sick any time now, words, sweat, pooling in the grooves of his collarbones and sticking his hair against the back of his neck. He fucking hates summer.

“Feelin’ okay?” There’s something in Atsumu’s voice, and Kiyoomi refuses to believe it’s actual worry. It’s just  _ something _ , thick and hot like caramel, drooping off his tongue, burning his tastebuds.

“A little hot.”

“I’d bet.”

God, Miya Atsumu. “What do you want?”

Kiyoomi shouldn’t have to ask; he already knows. He didn’t have to ask, but he asked, possibilities turning the air between them electric, buzzing, even warmer than it was inside. Atsumu’s sending goosebumps up his arms, as if he stuck his hands in ice water, and the threat of all their want aches in him as if Atsumu’s holding a gun to his stomach, the barrel emanating cold through the fabric of his shirt. Sure, it’s a menace, but Kiyoomi’s never been one to back down from a challenge.

“How cruel, Omi-kun.” The way Atsumu says his name makes Kiyoomi’s skin crawl— his heart beats in his throat, thrums, slow and steady wins the race. Atsumu speaks to Kiyoomi, in general, like he’s handing out pitchforks and torches and asking to be chased. He speaks like he’s about to run. He speaks in a low tone, a drawl, that accent of his, and Kiyoomi never knows what to take from it. Kiyoomi never knows what to take from his open-ended sentences and his stares. “Talking to me like that… You’re so unapproachable.”

“What are you saying, Miya?”

Kiyoomi’s judgment must be clouded, because he’s never been one to ask pointless questions. He already knows the answer; Atsumu’s looking straight at his mouth, oral fixations, and they’re both drunk. They’re both tense, tight, all of Atsumu’s muscles stiff in his relaxed position and all of Kiyoomi’s insides upset, lurching. Summer boils his blood still inside his veins; he can touch the sun if he just reaches.

Atsumu doesn’t answer, but doesn’t ask anything else. He does things slow, hesitant, like he never, ever does. Kiyoomi, believe it or not, lets him; he can tell he’s waiting for rejection, waiting to be pushed back. Kiyoomi wants, waits, lets Atsumu slide his fingers between the hair on the back of his head and look, stare, at his lips. His hand is so warm— Kiyoomi melts against it, works hard to hold tight, feeling like his body’s some sort of molten metal, maybe gold, sheets of it covering every inch of his skin. They both have their mouths open, he notices, after a moment he spends too focused on the eerie glow, golden brown, of Atsumu’s eyes. Atsumu’s breath must be mingling with his own, because he doesn’t feel its warmth against his skin. He feels their lips slotting together, dangerous, incendiary, surface-level nuclear fissions, and closes his eyes.

Maybe they’re too drunk for this, maybe they’re foolish, reckless. Kiyoomi kisses him slow, kisses him back. He feels Atsumu warm and flushed under his hands, incandescent light bulbs, thousands of watts’ worth of them. Atsumu’s a burning star, a traffic light blinking yellow. He’s Apollo in his golden sun chariot; he’s a god. He holds the entire world on his shoulders just because he can.

Atsumu pulls away even slower than he leaned in. Kiyoomi doesn’t know if he was vulnerable, then, eyes closed and lips parted, kissed out of his mind; when Kiyoomi opens his eyes, he’s already smiling. Miya fucking Atsumu. He smiles like he’s innocent, grins like a menace, and smirks like he’s the one making the rules, like he’s free to make them up as he goes. Kiyoomi loathes him.

Atsumu hums, his grin a mirror, blinding. Kiyoomi regrets kissing him, regrets knowing the bitter, alcoholic taste of his lips. In thought, Atsumu tasted like his words, tasted like his smiles. He was all made of words, really, snarky comments and stupid jokes. Atsumu was more a concept than a person, more something for Kiyoomi to mull over whenever he was bored. Now, they’ve kissed, and he knows Atsumu’s concrete.

See, there’s a reason why sun deities in mythologies all around the world are often associated with either being very powerful or the most powerful, a king or a queen; the sun’s a being that can choose whether to help and nourish or to burn and destroy, fire or warmth, potential to turn aid into something wicked. Atsumu’s the sun, a double-edged knife, a tyrant. He’s Machiavelli’s Prince, the lion and the fox, he guards himself with knives, sits back in his throne with bliss. He’s too far away for anyone to reach, guarded by a gate and a moat and a canyon—

He must’ve said something while Kiyoomi was busy thinking, because he walks back inside. Alone again, Kiyoomi might be sick, regret burning through his body, third-degree, and he doesn’t want to look at Atsumu’s face ever again.

It can only be pride. Atsumu’s, of course. Kiyoomi doesn’t look in his face out of regret, nothing of the kiss worth it in retrospect, not the acrid aftertaste, not the thundering hangover the next day, not the weak playing in practice, far from their full potential. Atsumu's the one who kissed him, isn't he? He should be the one to take responsibility. But no, he's too fucking proud, almost childish about it. He doesn't even call Kiyoomi out when he can't hit his set, doesn’t even say anything at all; Kiyoomi can hear every word he bites back on, can hear the snarl in his ragged exhales, desperate inhales, gnarly, beastly. Atsumu's a parasite, and he takes up space in Kiyoomi's brain, demands it, carves it out, tooth and claw, blood and bone.

Kiyoomi doesn't know how far back this goes, how much of this Atsumu has in his genetic code, in his bone marrow. He doesn't know if his pride is seeded or learned, if he is the way he is out of muscle memory, out of instinct, nature, or if this is all some sort of carefully built, meticulously put together ruse. Maybe not a ruse, at all, but a projection. Maybe Atsumu wants to fake it until he makes it — Kiyoomi wouldn't be surprised.

"Is something wrong, Omi-san?" Hinata asks, always so worried, always so innocent. Is something wrong? Kiyoomi feels bad for Hinata's worry, feels bad for his innocence, because he could live a life better off without Atsumu. Hinata Shouyou, the sun in his own manner, would never harm a fly. Leave, Kiyoomi thinks, run away. I'm too deep into this to escape, but you still have your shot, don't let him grow on you, don't let him take away this part of you.

"Not with me."

"Did something happen to Atsumu-san?"

Maybe Atsumu can hear them from the other side of the gymnasium. Maybe Atsumu can hear them through the layers of walls that are pride, and insecurity, and the disgusting façade he puts up, because no one can naturally be that nasty. How long would it take a drill to get through to him, much less a person?

"Not that I know of."

Kiyoomi's not proud, for that matter. Sure, he's a bit defensive, but he refuses to be made of the same thing as Atsumu, the same mixture of passive-aggressive aggressiveness and half-lidded eyes. Kiyoomi sits back, drifts closer to the walls than to the centre of the room. He would mix in with the shadows, if he could. He would hide away from every single prying eye while Miya Atsumu  _ is _ every single pair of prying eyes. Miya Atsumu doesn't care about privacy, a personal life, a public persona. He digs, tears through flesh, anything to get what he wants. How long has he been like this?

Kiyoomi remembers seeing him across the gym or the stadium, at youth camp or during Interhigh, and wondering just what made him so high-and-mighty. Atsumu had always been brimming with this feral confidence, self-assuredness, like he was certain everything revolved around him, like if you got too close you'd be dragged into his solar system, his gravity undeniable. Atsumu had been carrying the world on his shoulders because he wanted to, because he'd been dared to — because Atlas looked fucking cool.

Now, he's a shadow and the lightsource, no more half of a whole. Now, Atsumu's insatiable, ferocious, absorbing anything to get somewhere, to move onto the next prey. His limits are blurred lines, he's always in movement. Kiyoomi can't analyse him anymore; even with all his steps back, even running to the edge of the world to watch, Kiyoomi can’t look at the big picture. What even is Miya Atsumu, and how did he get here.

"Mm," Hinata hums, and when Kiyoomi looks at him, he's frowning. He looks like a kid, sometimes, with all that love in his heart, all that wonder in his eyes, like the world hasn't let him down yet. Kiyoomi thinks of what it must be like to live like that, and what it must feel like to see the world from that perspective. He doesn't remember ever feeling like the world was full of possibility, of optimism, just waiting to be taken on. While Hinata can be child-like in the brightest meaning, cheerful and optimistic, Miya Atsumu is simply a brat. "Maybe I'll ask him."

"Good luck." Kiyoomi hopes his sarcasm doesn't bleed through his tone, hopes his own walls are thick enough to hide wave after wave of bitterness and remorse. This is what always happens in the end, he’s always too blunt or too sharp, pushing people away this these ways of his — poor Kiyoomi, always alone, so closed-off. Sighs of pity, poor Kiyoomi.

Atsumu's another one of those, a kiss like he can save him. Atsumu is, as Kiyoomi's thought before, double-edged; Kiyoomi could taste, in his imaginary words and his abstract lips, the way he wanted to hoist him up at the same time he wished he could bring his demise. Atsumu tasted like a test, a kiss to turn him into dust or into gold. A kiss like alchemy.

Kiyoomi doesn't think he can play with him again, not as his thoughts cloud up his mind with even more negativity, rotten Miya Atsumu. He stays away during practice, because he has to play with him again, he just needs some time to bury these immature feelings and forget he ever knew the shape of Atsumu's needs, and the way he kissed like he could push Kiyoomi to the brink of madness. He wishes he was a blackout drunk, or that he had drunk more at all. Kiyoomi is all made of unfulfilled wishes.

"Sakusa, can I talk to you?"

Atsumu's voice brings acid up to Kiyoomi's throat, burning, dilacerating through his tissues, killing all it has in sight. Atsumu calling him Sakusa, fuck— like he has the right to try and be respectful. Like he has any right, still.

Such a coward move to approach him as he's leaving practice; they both live in the same direction, there’s no polite escaping him. Such a coward move not to let him walk away first, not to let him be alone. Kiyoomi knows Atsumu won't respect him even if he asks him to leave. Kiyoomi knows Atsumu will keep pushing—

"If ya' want me to go, I'll go." Atsumu speaks softly, quietly. He has so little of his bark, so little of all that usually makes him a threat and a half. This doesn't sound, doesn't feel like Miya Atsumu, the blazing sun. He's milder, toned down, winter, sunset. "I don't want to bother you any more."

"What's up?" Kiyoomi says, quietly, but he won't look at him. Even through an eclipse, do not look directly at the sun.

"I'm sorry about the other night. About the, um..."

Are they twelve? Hands-in-pockets, won't-say-kiss. They're twenty-three, both of them, big and old enough to have some emotional maturity, or so you'd think. Kiyoomi wonders how hard it must be for Atsumu to step down from his pedestal, to come down from his high horse. Kiyoomi thinks he deserves it, this humbling opportunity. This is all for the better.

"I didn't mean to make you angry. I was drunk, and yeah, that's no excuse, but—"

Listen, Kiyoomi does have feelings, okay. He won't admit it to himself, but he feels bad for Atsumu; poor Miya Atsumu. This might be too much for him, the poor man, all of this at once. "It's fine. Neither of us were thinking straight."

"Yeah! Yeah, that's... That's it. Um..."

"What else?"

The corner where they part is one block away, but they haven't stopped walking. Kiyoomi can feel, maybe because of post-practice nerves, exercise adrenaline, his heart beating quietly in his throat. It's not too much, nor is it too fast. Just loud enough to be aware of, to hear. Atsumu isn't saying anything, even as his chance is almost over, and Kiyoomi feels bad for him, after all. A sudden change of direction, a sudden change of feelings. No one cares for the sun when it's covered by clouds, and no one aids a fallen monarch. Maybe it's just decent to help him up to his feet.

Kiyoomi stops walking. Atsumu doesn't notice immediately, perhaps too immersed in his own thoughts, so he only stops a few steps ahead, turns back to look at him.

"What?" Kiyoomi lets his own voice drop, go a little softer. He hates himself for it, hates this fake benevolence, hates these feelings. He wants to beat himself up, wants to run away immediately. What the fuck.

"Nothin'," Atsumu says, furrows his brow, confused. Rightfully so— what the _ fuck _ .

Kiyoomi's moment of vulnerability, or whatever this is, comes to an end. "If you say so," he shrugs, and walks past Atsumu, careless, leaving him behind, still standing still. His heart is louder, now, pulses against his vocal cords, against his trachea, he can't breathe. "See you in practice."

What the fuck. Kiyoomi doesn't stop to hear any goodbyes Atsumu has left to say, if there even are any, and turns the corner without even thinking of looking back. The streets are empty, but he rushes down the pavement like he has somewhere to be. He pretends, and he tells himself, that he's not running away.

_ What the fuck. _

The cherry on top: Miya Atsumu texts him.

_ you feelin alright, omi omi?  _ How can someone text with an accent. Kiyoomi wants to strangle him, most of the time. The rest of the time, he wants to suffocate him with a pillow. Take your pick.  _ you were kinda weird the other night. after practice _

Kinda weird, kinda weird. Says Miya Atsumu, apologising, speaking quietly and hesitant, vulnerable, thought-through. It's like he became someone else. Kiyoomi can feel jitters on the tips of his fingers, shaking, nerves or anxiety, and he can't even try to type, speechless virtually. What can he say? What will be enough?

_ I'm fine.  _ And nothing else to add. He drops his phone to the floor, rolls around on his bed a little. Isn't this some sort of invasion of privacy? He's never had Atsumu here before, at home, in one way or another. It feels like he's tainting Kiyoomi's safe space, his private place, his one sacred ground. First a text, then a call, then he'll be walking into Kiyoomi's home, smelling of body spray and energy drinks. Kiyoomi needs to push him away before he feels comfortable, Kiyoomi didn't bring him closer in the first place. None of this is his doing. Is he to blame, not having rejected Atsumu that night, not having whispered a  _ no _ against his lips? Should he have backed down from a challenge, should he have let Atsumu win? (Did Atsumu lose, even now? What sort of rigged competition is this, with Atsumu always fucking winning? Tyrant. Cheat.)

_ you sure? is it me? sorry if i make ya nervous, omi kun, i know i'm too sexy _

Kiyoomi will kill him. Kiyoomi wants him to get out of his house, now. Kiyoomi wonders, in fact, if he can sue him for invasion of private property — is it a crime, to slide into someone's DMs? To text a teammate on a Sunday morning, despite weeks, years, of disdain, of despise? Miya Atsumu doesn't belong here. He claims his space, he conquers. Kiyoomi's not backing down without a fight.

_ Do you even hear yourself. _

_ isn't it a pleasure, hearin me? wait _ , and Kiyoomi waits. Wait— Kiyoomi waits? He drops his phone again, walks out of the room. Yeah, this is better, he should make himself some coffee, he's not thinking straight. It's too early in the morning, he reasons. This is all Miya Atsumu's fault.

Kiyoomi's strong enough to wave Atsumu out of his head with the smell of Arabica coffee and fresh bread from the bakery around the corner, bread that he goes out to buy, hoping that maybe getting out of his home will leave it empty for when he comes back, no fried-hair blondes to take up space, to lay invisibly on his couch, to fill his rug with crumbs. Atsumu would, wouldn't he? Make a mess, just so that Kiyoomi would remember him, spend more time thinking about him, as he cleaned and cursed him, mentally. Atsumu would leave little marks, little messages, would jumble Kiyoomi's spice cabinet out of alphabetical order, would leave a post-it on the bathroom mirror with some level of disgusting, ridiculous pun.

Kiyoomi does wave Atsumu away from his thoughts, he swears. He spends a good couple of hours watching a movie on the couch, a good couple of hours thinking of nothing but the way the plot goes on, but the way the movie rolls forward.

There are four texts waiting for him when he goes back to his room, refreshed, ready to recommend Motoya this film. One of them is from Motoya, indeed, getting back to him about a new deli that opened a couple of blocks away from his apartment complex.

The other three are, unsurprisingly, Miya Atsumu. He barges back into Kiyoomi’s mind, throws down the door, asking to be seen, asking for attention. Even if Kiyoomi were to barricade the door, he would seep through the cracks, ethereal, made of waves and never atoms.

_ voice message [2:37] _

_ voice message [0:15] _

_ don't miss me too much, omi kun _

Kiyoomi wonders what exactly Atsumu even has to say, to send him almost three minutes’ worth of voice messages. He simply wonders, because he will absolutely not listen to them, won’t waste away three minutes of his precious time hearing Atsumu’s voice when he already does that more than enough while they’re in practice, and in occasional team hangouts. (He’s already wasted enough time droning out his jokes while he got himself drunk, got himself dizzy. He wasted enough time with Atsumu’s summer-night words, with his 20 RPM voice, and the deliberate drip of poison in his kiss. Kiyoomi has no more time to spare.)

Kiyoomi keeps himself busy, does other things. He cleans up, a weekend ritual, he goes out grocery shopping. He can’t get Atsumu out of his thoughts. The curiosity swallows him, drowns him, and he wonders what it is that Atsumu’s got to say, what has he got to say to him. He wonders if Atsumu is worthwhile — the obvious answer is no, but he’s still so intriguing. Even after all this time, Kiyoomi feels like he hasn’t figured him out, his walls too thick, the nuance of his truth too complex. Atsumu’s completely unknown.

Not listening to his voice messages is not an option. It’s ten at night, and this has been bugging Kiyoomi all day. He looks at their chatlog, empty, nothing but Atsumu’s  _ don’t miss me too much _ , eleven hours ago. Seething into his apartment, creeping underneath his skin. Despite the cleaning, Atsumu remains, alien, inescapable in Kiyoomi’s home. The threat of his voice messages— the threat of his thoughts, maybe genuine, maybe earnest. Atsumu’s always unexpected, always a surprise. Kiyoomi just wants to know.

Kiyoomi listens to three minutes of Atsumu saying absolutely nothing. Listens to him telling him about his day, about a YouTube video Osamu sent him, and nearly an entire minute of Atsumu forgetting the word skillet. Fifteen seconds of, “And I know, I know we’re seeing each other on Monday for practice. But there’s no getting enough of me, is there, Omi-kun? I bet that if I sent ya' ten minutes of audios, thirty minutes, you would still listen, eventually. Do I interest you, Omi-kun? Be honest.”

Kiyoomi wants to throw his phone against a wall. Maybe, maybe if he destroys any evidence of Atsumu’s presence, of his existence, maybe then he’ll go away. Maybe it’s worth a shot.

He doesn’t do it, even as he holds his arm right in position, feels the strain in his muscles, wondering if his phone would just crack its screen or if it would come apart wholly, wondering if there would be a mark on the wall. He loosens his arm, lets the phone drop to the floor, thudding mutely against the carpet.

When he falls asleep, the only light in his room comes through the blinds from the lamppost across the street, bright white like a mirror on the moon, artificial and bright and acidic. Too-sweet. He turns around and falls asleep, hyper-aware of his phone on the floor, hyper-aware of the fact that he’s leaving Atsumu on read, hyper-aware of all the empty space in his bed. When he falls asleep, his room cold and dark and empty, he dreams of a guiding light, a guiding star. There are probably metaphors waiting to be written, to be thought up, somewhere. There are probably flowers and street signs and constellations, boys made of words and made of wonder.

Kiyoomi’s fast asleep; if someone thinks of metaphors, that someone’s not him.

As much as he won’t admit that he and Atsumu share pride, share foot-thick walls, share bite and bark and two sides of the same coin, he must admit neither of them are the type to give up. They’re professional volleyball players for a reason, they’re athletes. It’s the drive of competition, the belief of being the best, of being able to get there. Not winning but taking part is a lie — if you don’t want to win, what’s the point of trying?

That’s to say that Atsumu doesn’t stop texting him after being left on read for a while. Kiyoomi won’t give in, won’t humour him, but Atsumu’s not one to give up, ever.

There are no texts waiting for him when he wakes up, which doesn’t disappoint him, but is a bit surprising, a hidden passage, a secret ending. Kiyoomi gets up, goes running, makes himself breakfast, always with some sort of inner peace, empty and calm, like he hadn’t felt in a week, burdened by the ever-expanding menace of Miya Atsumu’s mouth. It’s not exactly a tonal shift to go back to normal, but a gradual descent, lightly pulling on the brakes back into Kiyoomi’s day-to-day, unhurried, relaxed and quiet, monochrome.

Well, it would be. Would have been.

The thing about Atsumu’s mouth is that it doesn’t really like to stay closed.

_ no reply? did i not impress you? _

_ is this yr coded way of sayin you want more? _

Lucky for him, probably, Kiyoomi sees the message early enough to avoid the following onslaught. He avoids more messages, avoids insistence. He replies with,  _ I assure you it’s not. _

_ aww, omi, you don’t wanna hear my voice? r u playin hard to get? _

It must be for the better that they’re having this interaction through text, and not physically. Must be God’s intervention, keeping Kiyoomi from acting upon his current homicidal tendencies.

_ Ew. _

_ do you want more voice messages, omi, is that it? ooh, do you want to send some of your own? _

If Kiyoomi can’t kill him, should he indulge him?

And what then, if he does?

The thing about virtual communication, about the internet, is that there’s always a wall down, sometimes several. You’re not insecure or wondering about eye contact, physical closeness, and the way Atsumu’s mouth curls around questions, the way his whole face turns inquisitive. Kiyoomi feels like he has less time to ponder on what is the right thing to say, and how he should act, because here the replies are instantaneous and he doesn’t get a chance to lie back. It’s just him and Atsumu, waiting for the other to come back, waiting for the other’s comeback.

“I’ll pass,” he says, out loud. Says, in the form of  _ voice message [0:01] _

Maybe his phone will actually break if he keeps dropping it every time he talks to Atsumu, wanting to be as far away from it as possible. There’s no way that leaving it on the floor is a healthy habit, but still, still; talking to Atsumu makes him feel like he’s about to be electrocuted, like there’s a virus coming through his phone into his body, in the shape of short-circuits, of power cords. He can’t keep holding his phone, can’t put it in his pocket or even on his nightstand. If his phone stays in sight, it’s still dangerous, still there.

Kiyoomi lets it slide from his fingers, grimacing. Oh, how he wishes things had gone back to normal. How he wishes he could give up.

He wishes Atsumu would give up, more than himself. Because Atsumu keeps on, goes crazy over his voice message,  _ I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS  _ and  _ i’m the luckiest man in the world, right, omi omi? _ , sends four different texts of four different half-sentences when he could have put them all in one, replies so fast that Kiyoomi very nearly feels — nearly, not actually — bad for taking his time. They don’t acknowledge this in practice; they’re good together again, they play just as well as they always had, baring their teeth, Atsumu’s sets turning into shooting stars under Kiyoomi’s palms, wicked, venomous, catching fire and burning friction. They don’t acknowledge that they might’ve gotten better, together, because they talk all the time, because communication is so much easier when you, well, communicate. Atsumu sends him a  _ dunno what was up with u during practice 2day _ , and Kiyoomi adapts. Atsumu sends him a  _ yer on fire, omi kun _ from the other side of the gym, his phone hidden behind his water bottle, and Kiyoomi doesn’t respond. He smiles, and service aces his ass.

They walk home together— in a not shoujo-manga sort of way. Atsumu annoying him all up until they part ways is a better way of putting it, but Atsumu annoys him after they part ways, as well. Kiyoomi turns the corner and his phone starts vibrating in his pocket and, if he cared, he would scold Atsumu for being on his phone in the middle of the street. He doesn’t. Instead, he always gets home, showers, and only replies to him when he’s going to bed, after dinner, after everything else. Talking to Atsumu becomes a ritual of unholiness, jabs and eyerolls, both of them doing nothing but talking to each other, unable to do anything but focus on the blue-light filter keeping them from one another. Atsumu makes himself at home in Kiyoomi’s brain, constant, outrageously but undeniably a part of his daily routine, and something he suddenly can’t go without, anymore. Kiyoomi thinks, disappointed, that it would be a boring day if they didn’t text, a little empty, a little blue. He thinks about it, but it doesn’t even sound feasible: as _ if _ Miya Atsumu would leave him alone.

Atsumu texts him, on a Sunday, and invites him to come over. Kiyoomi keeps thinking, can I cross this line? Should I stop here? Every time they talk, he feels like they’re going too far, like this is wrong or improper. Atsumu doesn’t really play devil’s advocate for himself — he’s the devil, in this scenario —, doesn’t play nice or try to rope Kiyoomi into talking to him, through sweet talk and niceties. His words are laced with evil. Maybe that’s why Kiyoomi keeps talking to him, why Kiyoomi says yes without saying anything at all, why he shows up at Atsumu’s door. Just to see what he says next.

(Here’s merely one of the problems of interacting with Atsumu, of the curiosity that he inspires: Kiyoomi sometimes does things he’ll regret later. Atsumu pulls him forward, brings out the worst in him. Atsumu makes him feel things in his gut, wrenching, infinitely bothered. To put it simply, Kiyoomi wants to tear him apart, break him into shreds he can process and analyse. The issue here being that he doesn’t know where Atsumu starts or ends, the tip of the iceberg, and he’s barely made of matter at all.)

It’s awkward, sitting on the couch, three feet apart, separated by layers and layers of walls and barriers and personal bubbles. Kiyoomi very strongly dislikes being in other people’s homes, feels like an intruder, even when he’s been invited, again and again. Like so much, he regrets coming. He regrets not pushing further, not asking  _ come over to do what, exactly,  _ or at least  _ why. _

They had been in the middle of an argument, Atsumu defending that dish soap is actually perfectly sufficient for diverse types of cleaning, and Kiyoomi wanting to choke him. The appeal of actually choking him had been too much, of stuffing his cabinets with proper supplies, of checking to see if his absurd practices managed to leave his apartment looking like anything other than a pigsty.

Atsumu sits there, on the other side of the couch, and the appeal is monstrous. Kiyoomi’s words got lost on his way over, faded as he power-walked his way to Atsumu’s door. Now, he regrets everything, the faint chill in his spine telling him that he should go home, missing the safety of a chatlog.

“Mm, Omi-kun?”

Atsumu sounds like the blade of a guillotine, hanging right above Kiyoomi’s neck. He sounds like  _ let them eat cake _ , like roomfuls of garments and parties drenched in foreign foods and expensive alcohol. He’s conquest, war, famine and death.

“Can I kiss you?”

Kiyoomi’s brain goes blank, but the metaphors still apply. Atsumu’s pride, obviously, but he’s lust when he speaks to Kiyoomi like molten metal, he’s gluttony when his smiles glint, menacing like a cannibal, he’s envy when he looks across the court, nasty, and turns adversaries’ plays into his own, he’s greed when he knows he’s the best and he’ll reach higher and higher—

“I mean, if you don’t want to, we’re cool, but since you came all this way—”

Kiyoomi kisses him, and it’s surprising that he’s never tried this to shut him up before.

In a lit-up room, with Kiyoomi’s hands holding his face very still, Atsumu kisses less like a threat and more like a confession. Without ounces of alcohol in their systems, he tastes more like sugar, maybe frosting or cookies, and presses gently, softly, against Kiyoomi until his grip loosens. He reaches up for Kiyoomi’s neck and pulls him closer, feather-light, to make sure he won’t escape.

_ You didn’t invite me over for a make-out session, did you, Miya?  _

Like always, Kiyoomi talks to him underneath a blanket, with the lights out, before he sleeps. Now, his contact name on the screen makes him sweat, makes his skin crawl, not a fear but a precaution. He feels like Atsumu reached and reached until he got to him, until holding him was skin on skin, barrierless, until he kissed away every single one of Kiyoomi’s doubts. It’s absolutely terrifying. He feels like a teenager again, when he talks to Atsumu like this. Feels like the reckless, stupid high-schooler he never truly was.

_ no _

_ but i'm not complainin _

_ come over any time, omi _

This arrangement of theirs, whatever it is, doesn’t seem very healthy in the long run. But still, it doesn’t seem very permanent at all; Kiyoomi keeps telling himself that he’s here because he’s entertained, because this gives him something to think about and get better at, something to master, and so he'll leave when this is all under him, behind him. He'll leave whenever he wants to. It's also hard to see something as durable when you barely know what that thing is, a mix of late-night texts and hard-hitting spikes with chick-flick marathons and lazy, loving kisses.

Atsumu treats him, in whatever this is, a bit like a prince turned god— cocky, plentiful and torturous. Like he has eternity to be with him, to taunt him and treasure him. To taste him, like ink and photons, like a boy made of wind and fire. He burns Kiyoomi's tongue, lavish, and provokes him until he comes over, until he aims a serve straight at his face, until he throws his phone to the other side of the room. Atsumu's a challenge, a challenger. He's a beast.

The worst part being, obviously, the fact that Kiyoomi accepts the challenge. Once again, Kiyoomi refuses to give up, refuses to settle. Not when he can win this, bring the ball to his court, leave — maybe not win, but whenever he wants this to be over — victorious. He goes along with it to see how far Atsumu will go, always. He holds him still, looks into his eyes, serious, until something cracks. Until all those mysteries come, unraveling, underneath his fingertips.

Kiyoomi is an analytical person, that's a well-known fact. He's cool and collected, calm, attentive. He's not easily surprised, not easily rendered speechless; he lives his life methodically, through hard work and practice, ambition, silent and watchful. Kiyoomi lives his life vigilant, waiting for something to come, always en garde so that nothing will turn him useless.

Atsumu comes like light; fast and blinding and warm. It surprises him. Smiles turning into kisses and words laced with helium explosions and interstellar care, plus the way he reaches for Kiyoomi's hand when they're watching a trashy B movie. Atsumu's so confusing, it makes his stomach upset. Maybe it’s the walls, sickening, bricks and stone and concrete, and each one he tears down just gives place to an entire new enigma. Maybe it’s the intimacy, tender and slow, the way Atsumu learns when not to bother him and when to be serious (God! It surprises him that Atsumu can be serious at all), learns when to push and when to pull. Learns when to leave him be.

And, most of all, they’re hard to maintain because they’re a secret. No one needs to know that, beyond becoming reluctant friends, they kiss when the movie’s ended and share the same blanket on Kiyoomi’s couch. What’s the point of anyone knowing something they barely have the words for? Because they’re not going out, they’re not friends with benefits, they’re not anything, quite right. They’re a shivering grey in a world of monotone, turning golden. They’re a spot of sunlight in impending doom.

Or something like that.

“What’re ya’ wearing?”

“Miya, I am in front of you.”

“Mm,” Atsumu smirks, stupid and juvenile and very on-brand for Miya Atsumu, “I mean on Saturday. To karaoke.”

To be Miya Atsumu, to be stupid and juvenile and tirelessly restless, is to invite all your friends to a karaoke bar on your 24th birthday. To be Miya Atsumu is to be made of breath and teeth and to never stop smiling.

“I never said I’m going.”

Atsumu chokes on a gasp, feigning offence, and falls off the couch. He sprints into the kitchen, a critter, and rests his chin on Kiyoomi’s shoulder. Kiyoomi tries to shrug him off, but he doesn’t budge. “What do you mean, yer’ not going?”

“I didn’t say I’m not going,” Kiyoomi says, stiff, and checks if his omelet’s peeling off on the sides. It bubbles, slowly. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Which means yer’ going, cool, thanks.” Atsumu pulls away, tip-toes through the kitchen, opens a cabinet. A parasite, remember?

“I’m making food, close that. Also, what’s in it for me?”

“You can see me happy.” Atsumu turns around on his heels, winks. He inches closer, eyes dead-set on Kiyoomi’s lips, and he shouldn’t, they shouldn’t. It’s not like Atsumu’s kisses will convince him of anything. “You can make me happy, because I want all my friends there.” 

“You’re already happy. Obnoxiously happy. Are you not?”

Atsumu reaches for a kiss, and Kiyoomi lets him. Short, chaste. For the sake of it. It’s the sort of kiss they sneak in when they’re alone in the changing room after practice, because Atsumu’s annoying and won’t back down without it, the sort of kiss-goodbye when Kiyoomi’s leaving Atsumu’s apartment after too many hours together, the sort of kiss to start and finish things, pointless, sweet. It’s so unlike their first kiss, want and need and weight, and more of a reassurance. (Kiyoomi doesn’t think too much about their kisses, anymore, because there are too many to count, too many to worry over. He has decided that the best thing he can do is live in the moment, and leave the regret for later.)

“Having you there would make me happi _ er _ ,” Atsumu says, so close. He smells like mint toothpaste and like fresh-out-of-the-shower. His hair’s still wet, a muted colour, an ugly type of blonde. He needs to redo his roots, probably get a haircut. Kiyoomi shoves him away.

There’s something in his stomach, and Kiyoomi doesn’t want to think about what it is. It’s probably some sort of hunger; he hasn’t eaten anything since last night, the takeout boxes hanging open in Atsumu’s trashcan. He doesn’t want to think about it; he folds the omelet, presses down on it, turns off the burner.

Atsumu, proud and irritating, has not given up. “So you’ll go?”

Kiyoomi doesn’t respond; he slides the omelet onto a plate, and hands it to Atsumu. Atsumu, petulant, does not take it. He’s got that same unwavering gaze that is normal for him, a challenge, patient like he will never back down, but it’s got some vulnerability to it, now. Kiyoomi feels wrong to see all his weak spots, exposed, because he would never want someone to see his own. He doesn’t like the genuinity in Atsumu’s gaze, because he doesn’t want to be the decider for his happiness. But then again, as much as he doesn’t want anyone, anything to get to him, maybe he’s in way too deep to know how close Atsumu’s already gotten.

“I’ll think about it,” Kiyoomi says, with his soft voice. Quiet, true. Atsumu takes the plate.

Kiyoomi thinks about it; he considers whether it’s worth it, midnight laced around him and hugging his phone close to his chest, typed-whispered goodnights on his and Atsumu’s chat. He thinks about dingy karaoke bars and neon signs and LED lights, considers his teammates — drunk, laughing, singing — and himself — constricted, small, and absolutely grossed out. He considers the taste of booze on Atsumu’s lips and the closeness of his mouth to the microphone, considers words dripping with mercury and oil spills, words dripping with gasoline.

He’s decided he’s not going. He’s sure he’s not going until Saturday morning practice, light-hearted and patient, when everyone on the team literally jumps Atsumu. He’s sure he’s not going until Atsumu smiles, laughs, so unlike himself, nothing of malice or untruth in his grin, and Kiyoomi can’t stop staring. Atsumu plays like a god, plays like he’s got nothing to be afraid of, better and cockier than he’s ever been, but never with his overconfident smile, instead with pure joy, smiles like sunlight in his veins. He smiles looking straight at Kiyoomi.

Kiyoomi looks at himself in the mirror, the lamps in his bedroom already turned off, the room dim with just the residual light from the street outside. Saturday evenings are nights of terror, of long red nails and muted music. On Saturday evenings, Kiyoomi stays inside, tries to go to sleep early, sometimes reads.

He’s put on a turtleneck and a black windbreaker; battle armour. It’s not even all that cold, October still with spring-summer temperatures, days with highs of 22, 23, Celsius. He ventures out into the evening and premature regret starts bubbling in his blood, not scared but anxious, afraid more than terrified.

He can hear the music from two blocks away.

What does the night have in store for him? He sees Atsumu’s face as soon as he walks inside the bar; he’s got party goggles on, his hair mussed and ruffled, and a plastic lei around his neck. He’s singing-yelling something into the microphone in broken English, but he sees it when Kiyoomi sees him. He stands up straight, his face shifts.

By the time the song ends, Kiyoomi’s nursing a shochu glass — he’s not getting through this night on beer only — and sitting amidst empty chairs on a table stacked with phones and coats and glasses. Atsumu slides into the chair next to him, and he already smells like sweat, perfume and whisky.

“You came,” Atsumu says, too-close to his mouth, staring straight down at it, and his voice is slower, heavier, than usual. His accent’s a little drawn out; he tugs at his a’s, pulls apart his vowels.

Kiyoomi finishes his drink in one swig, and ignores the burn. Ignores the aftertaste of Atsumu that he can’t wash out, no matter how many times he brushes his teeth. It’s been months, for fuck’s sake. Ignores the fact that he wants to grab him and kiss him stupid.

“Didn’t think you’d come.” Kiyoomi wonders how many drinks Atsumu’s had, because he can tell he’s seriously about to kiss him. He holds Atsumu away by his shoulder, looks to the side.

“You said you wanted me here.”

“Don’t say that like ya’ usually do the things I want.”

“I do them just fine,” Kiyoomi says, swallowing, Atsumu’s breath warm on his skin. Atsumu hasn’t pulled away. Kiyoomi’s finding it hard to breathe. “When they’re sensible.”

“Kiyoomi…”

Kiyoomi can’t breathe at all. He’s been left in a dungeon, rotting under the setting sun, the air milky with moisture and billowing with dust, golden, viscous. Atsumu’s persecuting him to watch him burn. Atsumu’s throne is made of bones and firewood, and he sits in tongues of fire.

“Atsumu-san!” Hinata runs closer, and Kiyoomi’s heart stops. “Oh, sorry, am I interrupting something?”

“Absolutely not,” Kiyoomi says, pulls away for good. Atsumu pouts a little, but when he turns to Hinata, it’s already with a smile.

Kiyoomi can’t breathe. Hinata pulls Atsumu away, pulls him into a song, and Kiyoomi can still feel his heart rattling against his ribcage like a spoon against prison bars. Atsumu called him by his first name, fully, and it surprised him. An Atsumu of Omi-kuns and Omi-Omis and Sakusas when he knows when to be serious, an Atsumu of slipping in a  _ babe  _ to get kicked out of Kiyoomi’s apartment, had never once called him by his full first name before. Kiyoomi knew it was bound to happen, eventually, because they were close and they were friends and Atsumu’s voice only got softer around him, smoother, less and less of a prickly bastard. Still— still.

He’s down another two shochu drinks by the time Meian sits on one of the chairs next to him, smiling with his perfect white teeth, a navy-blue polo tight around his shoulders. “Not going to sing a single one, Sakusa?”

“I’m good, thank you,” Kiyoomi says, setting down his empty glass on the table, wondering what exactly he has to do to get out of this conversation and get himself another drink. He can feel the alcohol in his system already, in the way sarcasm scratches the roof of his mouth and he feels like spilling all of his truths. In the way he wants to crash against Atsumu like two stars colliding, like Earth falling into the sun, and pull all of his body into none. He wants to breathe Atsumu into nonexistence. He wants to have him, whole.

“Inunaki and Tomas had a bet that you weren’t going to come. Despite everything. You should ask Tomas for your share, later.”

Kiyoomi shouldn’t ask. It’s a conversation starter for a conversation he doesn’t want to have. He’s thirsty with truth, however, and drunk to the point of stupidity. He asks. “Despite everything?”

“You and Atsumu. Took you a while to become friends, didn’t it?”

“Friends…” Kiyoomi watches the way the blinking lights reflect and go through the sides of his glass, swimming in leftover drops. He knows the sharp black of Meian’s eyes, knows it from advice and from scolding, and won’t look up, even when he knows that he’s being so insanely immature. He strangles his words, ties them down into his stomach, cages them with his diaphragm. He pretends like he has nothing to say.

“Well, yeah. You antagonised each other for long enough. I was never sure if you’d work out eventually— if you’d get along— but I’m glad you do. I can’t see anything bad that’s come from it.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t look up; he’s scared, now, terrified of the pressure in his chest, from the inside out. He feels like a bomb holding itself together.

“You make him so happy. It’s easy to tell, he’s less—”

“Atsumu?”

Meian chuckles, but shakes his head. “Selfish. Sleazy. I guess that was a lot of him before, yeah, but he’s still him, just better. Like he pushes to be better every day — because of you. Two negatives into a positive.”

There’s a pause, a gaping hole, and Kiyoomi knows what Meian is waiting for. He looks up, nevermind the fact that he’s being a kid about all of this, and shivers in place at the way Meian looks at him. Smiley Meian, friendly Meian, isn’t their captain for no reason. His wisdom’s in the little things, and in the way he helps. In the way he cares, and sees through them; he looks into Kiyoomi’s eyes until he seems satisfied, and looks away, takes a sip of his beer.

“He’s good for you, too,” Meian says, his voice soaked in the truth of their relationship. There’s no way he wouldn’t know — Kiyoomi wonders how discreet they’ve actually been, and who else knows. Kiyoomi considers the way Atsumu stares at his mouth, sometimes, and the way Atsumu’s joking flirts become less and less of a joke each time he says them. “You’re too smart not to know it, Sakusa.”

Can you ghost someone that you see everyday?

Kiyoomi doesn’t kiss him goodbye, even when Atsumu pulls him into the bar’s bathroom thinking that it’s just a question of privacy.

“I’m tired, Miya.”

“Omi…” Atsumu drags his syllables for miles, his fingers and toes not enough to count all the drinks he’s had tonight, and Kiyoomi thinks of the way he said his name, full, like it didn’t carry any weight at all. “It’s my birthday. Please.”

There’s no room to breathe in this godforsaken bathroom, no room to breathe with Miya Atsumu’s warmth and the thickness of his ego. “It’s not anymore,” Kiyoomi says, no need to check a watch to know that it’s ungodly past midnight. The unholy hour. “I’ll kiss you another time.”

“Yer’ gonna leave me like this,” Atsumu says, takes a step back, grouchy and spoiled, “on my fucking birthday.”

“Miya, it’s not your birthday.”

“Quit callin’ me Miya, Kiyoomi,” he says, his own version of a temper tantrum. Kiyoomi hates his guts.

Kiyoomi takes a step forward and tentatively, painstakingly, presses his lips to Atsumu’s forehead, disgusting and sweaty and oily but there. “I’ll see you, Atsumu.”

Kiyoomi takes a shower when he gets home, aching at four in the morning, and stands under the current until he can’t feel the water anymore, until the staticky white noise in his chest expands into his every bone, deeper than bone marrow, reaches his soul.

He doesn’t reply to Atsumu’s texts for all of Sunday; he doesn’t even touch his phone. Instead, he leaves it tucked under his pillow, pretends everything is fine, no remnants of last night in his system after a couple of aspirin and a visit to the convenience store for lunch.

He reads a bit, sits by the window of his living room and tries to get any pieces of sunlight he can reach, but the book’s ink fades into Meian’s eyes and  _ he’s good for you _ . Even when he focuses, all he can see is the way Atsumu looked when he entered the bar, and the way Atsumu likes to send him single-word voice messages, and the way Atsumu’s hair gets messy after they kiss, even if he barely touched it at all. Even far away, hidden underneath his pillow and living blocks and blocks away, Atsumu has infiltrated Kiyoomi’s apartment, left his mess for him to clean. Atsumu has infiltrated him.

Kiyoomi is too smart for the lies he tells himself. He is too smart to think he could leave at any point, too smart not to notice himself getting drawn in. For once in his life, Kiyoomi chose not to notice, to turn a blind eye and live blissfully in a self-aware ignorance. He had asked, begged to be able to enjoy this, to not worry, to know that he was making himself into a fool.

You get what you pay for, probably.

He can’t ignore Atsumu forever; he’s seeing him tomorrow, playing with him tomorrow. He can’t give some sloppy excuse of his phone was stolen or he broke it, because that’s too stupid for him to pull through. He doesn’t want to say anything but the truth, while the truth is something he doesn’t want to say. He’s terrified of falling back into that first week of sweaty summer stares, after a kiss so full of sin and power that he thinks it’s never been equalled, by them or others.

The truth is, Kiyoomi feels like Icarus. Kiyoomi feels like he’s been thrown around by a mighty king, by a careless, selfish king, full of desire and charisma, wanton, and that he flew right into the sun. He flew into the sun to escape the hell that came forth, flew into the sun because he couldn’t do anything else. Flew into the sun because he was in love with burning.

Kiyoomi won’t admit it, won’t look himself in the eye and say it.

He closes his book, stands up. He can feel his phone in his room, wonders if all that people say about radiation is true, because he feels like he emits, transmits, and absorbs every single wave of evil that his phone tries to get to him. Forty-six unread messages from Miya Atsumu himself, and counting.

Love festers in his stomach like a wound, like fungus taking over him cell by cell, like pollen covering his every organ. He feels torn open, ripped apart, feels third-degree burns through his skin and his muscles. Love hurts, love kills. Maybe if Kiyoomi pretends it’s not there, it won’t be.

_ omi _

_ omiiii _

_ omi omi omi omi _

_ are you thereee _

_ did something happen _

_ did i do somethin?? _

_ omi pls reply _

_ i can wait. i’ll wait _

_ but please reply _

_ hey, sakusa? _

_ um _

_ i’m sorry if i did something _

_ didnt mean to _

_ please talk to me _

_ please _

Atsumu actually doesn’t try to talk to him on Monday. He keeps his distance, wilting, falling, a black hole in reverse. A sick king, on the verge of death, and a sun that’s stopped shining. He won’t look Kiyoomi in the eye; Kiyoomi’s stomach churns, sickly, and he swallows on bile.

They throw off the team’s balance. They play together, sure, they communicate and jump and serve, but it’s not the same. There’s a gap between them, unbridgeable, an invisible wall made of clouds and wind. Kiyoomi knew it would end up like this, knew that beyond regret they’d have issues, and that you shouldn’t try for something when you’ve got so much to lose. He’s been foolish, he’s aware. He’s been dumb, reckless, crazy, living in the present like the future never comes, worrying about nothing when the consequences were so glaring.

He stays in the bleachers after practice, terrified of Atsumu in the changing room, weak spots unconcealed. He holds his phone between his knees and wishes it would vibrate with the answer. Wishes he had a fairy godmother to guide his way.

“Sakusa!” Kiyoomi looks up, and Bokuto’s grinning, fresh off of the shower, towering his way with his bag on his shoulder and his hair down.

“Bokuto.” Kiyoomi nods, and Bokuto sits beside him. 

“Did you and Atsumu fight?”

Straight to the point. Kiyoomi blinks, wonders if there’s any point in lying; he knows the team noticed their change in dynamics, knows the team noticed when they got close and when they got closer and now, now that they’ve fallen apart and crumbled. He thinks of Meian’s words, of the way he looked sternly at him during practice today, none of the usual encouraging smiles and teasing, just a mix of reprehension and high expectations. But they didn’t really fight, not really. Kiyoomi pulled away and left Atsumu stranded, he knows, he’s aware, and he can see it in the way Atsumu’s acting. Kiyoomi’s being nothing short of evil — they didn’t fight. It’s all on him. “Not really.”

“No?”

“He didn’t do anything,” Kiyoomi says, which isn’t the whole truth. He thinks of the way Atsumu scrapes his chopsticks against his bowl to get off the last grains of rice, thinks of the way he slurps on his miso soup. Thinks of the size of his yawns when he wakes up from naps, and the pull of his arm when he wants Kiyoomi close, close, closer. Thinks of all he’s done, Kiyoomi’s demise, his smile like he’s pushing him into a deadly plunge. Thinks of the warmth in his chest, a foundry, one thousand degrees and up.

“Then you did?” Bokuto asks, before he has a chance to go on.

There are unread texts on Kiyoomi’s phone and a sorrowful setter in the changing room. “I guess.”

Bokuto’s voice lowers, a surge in seriousness and depth. Kiyoomi looks at him; he’s scary, threatening. He looks like he’d snap Kiyoomi’s neck with half a second. “Well, why aren’t you trying to fix it?”

If Kiyoomi thinks about it, Bokuto’s also the sun, in his own manner. Atsumu and Hinata and Bokuto, all of them bright and powerful, warm, each a different face of the same strength, feral, wild. Hinata’s an energy source, he’s light and he’s comfort, warms you up from the core out. Bokuto’s a force to be reckoned with, a giant, a monster, a smile bordering on manic and the potential to wreck the world.

Atsumu is fire and destruction. He’s the eight minutes of calm after the sun implodes, he’s the hope after coronation. Atsumu reeks of a shipwreck and a storm, reeks of cataclysms and apocalypse. He burns like hellfire, and Kiyoomi wants to get closer. Kiyoomi’s immune and Kiyoomi’s vulnerable. Atsumu’s the answer.

Kiyoomi’s scared of fixing it. Scared of bringing down walls, scared of cracking tile underneath his feet and crumbling bricks with his hands. He’s scared of the dust and the cement and the concrete, scared of what’s behind it all. He’s a little kid who’s scared of the dark, who pulls the sheet up over his head so the monsters can’t get him.

“I don’t know,” he says, instead, all his defenses down and waiting for any blow Bokuto takes at him. This, this is what Atsumu’s done. Atsumu’s thrown bomb after bomb until any barrier of Kiyoomi’s was in shackles, and now Kiyoomi has to wander through the rubble.

Just as quick and easily as he had shifted into an eerie seriousness, Bokuto smiles again, and nudges him. “You’re too smart not to figure it out, Sakusa! I want to see the two of you all smiley again. It was so much better!”

“I’m sure,” Kiyoomi says, tries at a smile even when it feels misplaced on his face. Bokuto stands up and fingerguns him, walking backwards towards the changing room and the exit.

“See you tomorrow! I hope you work things out!”

When Kiyoomi frowns, says “Thanks,” Bokuto’s too far away to hear.

He can’t fall asleep without new words from Atsumu, can’t fall asleep without his phone dimming the screen in his hand, waiting for a reply, eyelids heavy, just waiting for the right time, waiting for the right joke of Atsumu’s that will have crossed the line — there’s never been one that actually did — and lead him into a dry  _ good night _ , and Atsumu’s  _ sleep well, omi-kun _ , or  _ dream of me _ , or even  _ see ya in the morning _ . Like Atsumu had nothing to be afraid of.

Kiyoomi can’t sleep. He checks his phone at eleven, at a quarter past midnight, at one thirty. His chest aches with guilt and with longing, a pressure that will crack his skull in two, nothing he can withstand. It’s like withdrawal, his mouth dry and his hands shaking, anything but peace on the horizon.

He tugs on a hoodie, his thickest oldest one, and climbs into sneakers. Maybe he just needs some fresh air, maybe he should just take a little walk. All these thoughts are normal, it’s not unusual to have a head chock-full of voices and worries and dread. People go through this every day. Everyone has a method of coping, everyone de-stresses one way or another.

He opens the front door and Atsumu stands there, sweaty, wearing slippers and a flimsy T-shirt. That’s too light, even for the warmest of October evenings; Kiyoomi pulls him inside without even noticing what he’s doing, ignoring the sweat sticking his hand to Atsumu’s arm, ignoring his huffed breaths and his skin, ice-cold.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Atsumu says, wrapped in a blanket and holding a cup of warm water, sitting by Kiyoomi’s dining table. Kiyoomi hasn’t asked him anything, kept quiet as he pulled Atsumu through the flat, his heart beating in the back of his throat and in his fingers.

“Me neither,” Kiyoomi says, dead quiet, whispers. He still feels like his words echo through the house, walls damp with Atsumu, ceilings dripping with sunlight even at two in the morning.

“Sakusa, please talk to me. What did I do?”

“You didn’t do anything,” Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, grits his teeth. Atsumu blaming himself, despaired — that’s a sight.

Atsumu stands and steps forward, and Kiyoomi’s apartment is too small. Atsumu’s in his face in a second, the blanket falling to the floor, and Atsumu’s voice is pained and breathy. “Then what happened?”

Kiyoomi wants to yell it from the rooftops, wants to confess his love in a song. He wants to shake Atsumu until he gets it, wants to whisper things against his skin until they seep through his pores and flood inside of him. He wants to stick knives into Atsumu’s walls, wants to rip down his wallpaper until his nails bleed, stuffed with plaster, wants to wrecking-ball a way into his chest.

Kiyoomi’s bad with words. They all get stuck in his throat, scrambled, choked.

“Sakusa, please.”

To hear Atsumu call him Sakusa is wrong, and the tears in his eyes, the desperation as he searches across Kiyoomi’s face, are even worse. Kiyoomi stutters back, echoes, “Please,” and pulls him into a kiss like that’ll relieve him.

Atsumu doesn’t kiss him back. He might press back, lean into it, but that’s not kissing. Atsumu doesn’t hold him, and doesn’t feel against him like a devilish desire. He’s restrained, he’s waiting.

Kiyoomi pulls away and doesn’t open his eyes. He can feel tears clumped, squeezed in between his lashes. Words don’t come to him easily, ever, but he tries his best. “I fell for you,” he says, mouth numb and swollen, voice thick like cotton, “and I didn’t want to.”

He waits. He waits, sure that eventually, Atsumu will say something, maybe lean in and kiss him. He waits, and opens his eyes. Atsumu’s smiling, soft, no sharp edges, blunted by clouds, gentle. “Let’s talk.”

They talk, sitting cross-legged on Kiyoomi’s bed and one facing the other, hands clutched in front of them and Atsumu tugging at Kiyoomi’s fingers. Kiyoomi doesn’t know what to say beyond his falling, beyond the fact that he likes Atsumu, after all, despite it all, and wants to be with him, boyfriends, or whatever. His words come out slow, quiet, all his insecurities bared for the world to see, but here for Atsumu’s eyes only. Atsumu steps down from his high, high horse and looks him straight in the eye; they’re one of the same.

“I knew I liked ya’ already,” Atsumu shrugs, like it takes nothing of him to say it. Kiyoomi admits he’s got pride, but it’s not that much like Atsumu’s. Atsumu won’t back down from a fight to the point of admitting self-hurting truths, while Kiyoomi won’t back down to the point of pretending he doesn’t know himself. “I kissed you first. I’d wanted to for a while, too.”

“I don’t know when I first wanted to,” Kiyoomi says, words like blood, like ichor. “But I’m glad you kissed me.”

“Naw, I’m glad ya’ liked it, Omi-kun.” Atsumu takes his hand — finally —, brings it up to his mouth. Kisses the tips of his fingers, and Kiyoomi should reprehend him, this is not the most sanitary thing to do, but now, now he doesn’t feel like he can’t complain. He’s cried in front of this man, it’ll take him a while to build up any walls again, even if into a shared room. If he puts them up now, they’ll just come tumbling down like a waste. “I’m glad we communicated even through miscommunication.”

Kiyoomi wonders if Atsumu got lectured, also, maybe by Barnes, maybe by his brother. If someone scolded him for his recklessness, scolded him into maturity.

“We’re boyfriends, now, huh?” Atsumu says, smiles, teeth like fang, gleaming white like clouds or sunlight on a lake’s reflection. Through a magnifying glass, that light could blind someone.

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes but, when Atsumu leans forward, when he steals the words from his lips, he doesn’t complain. Atsumu kisses him like closure, like a gift, like rising to the skies. God, Miya Atsumu.

Miya fucking Atsumu.

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/kenhinabot)
> 
> thank you for reading! i cannot believe i'm posting another 10k'er but here i am. time to fall back into my hole and come out with a 30k fic next time!  
> if you enjoyed this, please consider leaving a kudo, a comment or a bookmark — it will make me outstandingly happy, and i will cherish you for the rest of my years


End file.
